


Growing Godsmother

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Cultural Differences, Family, Friendship, Gen, K'miri, Memory, References to Suicide, legacy, stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 13:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17044664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Buri grows into her role as godsmother.





	Growing Godsmother

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lisa at Goldenlake for the Wishing Tree Event.

Growing Godsmother

The Question

“Jon and I need to name godsparents for our child.” Thayet was taking an unusually long time to notch her arrow to her bowstring as she and Buri practiced archery in the palace training yard, and Buri doubted it was because of the bulk of her pregnancy. “It’s a Tortallan custom where people who aren’t the parents of a child swear to assume the responsibilities of a parent for the child.”  
“I know what godsparents are, Thayet.” Buri channelled her exasperation at being treated as an ignorant highland savage into an arrow that hit the bull’s eye with a satisfying thud. “I didn’t arrive in Tortall last Tuesday.” 

“Jon wants to name his most trusted friend Gary as godsfather,” Thayet continued with what seemed to be a prepared speech, ignoring Buri’s caustic comment. “I will have the honor of choosing the godsmother.” 

“Who will you be picking then?” Buri, firing another arrow that found the bull’s eye, was impatient with Thayet’s beating around the bush. Hedging had never been part of their friendship before, and she didn’t want it to start ruining their relationship now. Jerking her chin at the arrow that Thayet had still failed to attack to her bowstring, Buri added pointedly, “You’ll get shot through with feathers if it takes you so long to nock an arrow in battle.” 

“Like Jon, I want to pick my most trusted friend.” Thayet strung her bow but didn’t aim or fire it. Obviously she was more in the mood for conversation than archery. When Buri failed to respond with sufficient excitement to this revelation, Thayet nudged her in the ribcage. “That’s you, Buri.” 

“Oh.” Buri felt as if an arrow had lodged in her heart. “I’m too young to be any sort of mother.” 

“You’re not much younger than me.” Amusement shimmered in Thayet’s hazel eyes. 

Scowling, Buri was tempted to retort that was more proof Thayet was too young to be a mother than it was evidence Buri should be named a godsmother, but the last twenty times she had argued Thayet was too young for motherhood, she had lost. Even she could learn when royal pigheadedness was irresistible. At last, she settled for saying, “Are you sure you don’t want to ask someone more sweetly maternal? Someone like Lady Cythera perhaps?” 

Until the question left her lips, she hadn’t realized how jealous she was of honey sweet Lady Cythera and the friendship she had developed as Thayet’s secretary. 

“No.” Thayet spoke gently as if she understood Buri’s sudden envy. “I want to ask my best friend, and I hope she’ll say yes.” 

“I brought you here from Sarain, leaving my homeland forever.” Buri’s jealousy cracked in a crooked smile. “I never could refuse you in anything no matter how crazy.” 

“You’ll be godsmother then?” Thayet’s voice was so serious that Buri found herself compelled to reply in kind. 

“I’ll be godsmother,” agreed Buri solemnly as if she uttered an oath. 

Mama

“Roald said his first word today,” Jon announced proudly by way of greeting when Buri stepped into the royal quarters. 

“What word was it?” Buri crossed the thick carpet to sit on the sofa beside Thayet, who bounced a cooing Roald on her knee. 

“‘Mama.’” Thayet beamed as she brushed a lock of black hair away from Roald’s forehead to plant a kiss on the baby soft skin. “It was ‘Mama.’”

“Now that he’s talking, he’ll say ‘Papa’ soon.” Jon, seated in an armchair across from his wife and son, leaned forward to address Roald in the cajoling tone people reserved for puppies and small children. “Won’t you, Roald? Say ‘Papa.’”

Roald seemed to consider this for a moment before answering gleefully, “Mama.” 

“He inherits his obstinacy from you, Thayet.” Jon chuckled at his son’s unwitting defiance. 

“I rather think it comes from you, Jon.” Thayet adjusted Roald so he was facing Buri. 

“Mama.” Roald stretched his hands toward Buri, imploring her to hold him. 

“Come here, you little tyrant.” Buri lifted Roald onto her lap. When Roald had been born, she had sworn that she wouldn’t spoil him—because the last thing the world needed was a pampered prince who would grow into another Adigun—but she had fallen for his charms, indulging him with her gruff affection. 

Seeing the hurt in Thayet’s hazel eyes when her son called Buri “Mama,” Buri offered what wry comfort she could. “I think he loves you so much, Thayet, that he can’t help but call everyone ‘Mama’ in your honor.” 

“He loves you too.” The hurt was fading in Thayet’s gaze to be replaced by humor. “I’m glad he does.” 

By the Horse Lords

“By the Horse Lords, these ponies are covered in more brambles than most bushes,” grumbled Buri before remembering that Roald had volunteered to join her in the stables to help brush out the ponies. 

“You shouldn’t swear.” Roald spoke with the righteous indignation of which only five-year-olds and priests were capable. 

“I didn’t swear.” Buri propped her hands on her hips and glared at the little prince who dared to challenge her. “I exclaimed.” 

“You took the names of gods in vain.” Roald’s words sounded as if they had been stolen from the mouths of his joyless Mithran tutors, a suspicion that was quickly proven correct when Roald continued, “The gods don’t like it when you take their names in vain. My Mithran tutors told me that.” 

“They’re Mithran priests, Roald.” Buri snorted her disdain for a priesthood she regarded as too uptight due to never being allowed to know the pleasures of the flesh. “They know nothing of the likes and dislikes of the Horse Lords.” 

Cocking his head, Roald was quiet for a moment before breaking his silence to ask, “Would you tell me about the Horse Lords? Mama doesn’t like to talk about them.” 

Thayet, Buri thought, didn’t like to speak of Sarain. Not to her husband or her children or even to Buri, who had fled that war-torn land alongside her. She seemed to fear that it would bring the memories of death and destruction—of the many people she couldn’t save—back to life as if any thoughts of Sarain were dark magic. 

“There are four Horse Lords.” Buri began to recite the K’miri pantheon because she didn’t want her godschild who had K’miri blood burning through his veins to grow up entirely ignorant of K’miri culture. “They are the children of Father Storm and Mother Fire…” 

Balor’s Needle 

“Thank you for coming up here with me.” Roald flashed Buri a grin bright as the stars shining close enough for her to touch with a stray finger as they stood atop Balor’s Neeld overlooking moonlit Corus. “Not everyone will come up here. Papa says he can’t get Mama to come up here for love or money even though she isn’t afraid of heights.” 

“She’s not afraid of heights but towers like this bring back painful memories—memories of her mother’s death.” Buri felt she had to share the story of Kalasin’s noble sacrifice and final protest on behalf of her oppressed people with Kalasin’s grandson because Kalasin’s legacy was too brave to die, and it would have hurt Thayet to give voice to it—even to her children. Buri would have to be the voice for the most beautiful singer she had ever known—the one who had sung the world had ever heard in a manner that transformed heartache into transcendent purity. “Her mother died jumping from a tower like this after singing a protest against a repressive law against the K’mir passed by her own father who hated the K’mir with all his coal black heart.”


End file.
